


The World at My Command

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Play, Dark!Phil, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, child slavery (not main characters), dom!Phil, mercenary!Clint, rape (not main characters), sub!clint, underage sex (not main characters), voice play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is a well paid mercenary whose good at what he does.  He enjoys the freedom of being a merc, but most jobs are crap.  This new employer, though, he's something special – the jobs are good, the intel never faulty, and he seems to give a damn about collateral damage.  Clint likes him, and he'd thought they were working their way up to something, but it's been six weeks since Clint's latest job, almost seven, since he's heard from the mysterious 'Mr. Brown'.  Clint doesn't mean to worry, but he can't help it.  Something's wrong. </p>
<p>A non-canon dark!world AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to orderlychaos and krestfall for beta'ing this for me, ages ago now! I did some more fiddling with it, and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Please read the warnings: The major ones are rape and implied child-slavery of minor characters. The rape isn't particularly graphic, but I know it doesn't need to be to trigger a lot of people! Please respect yourself and your limits.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: chapter one is mostly plot, chapter two mostly sex. *g* You have been warned!

Clint grabs his hotel room key off the table. He slips his wallet into his back pocket and takes his alternate ID's out of the safe. His worn leather jacket fits comfortably over his shoulders, its familiar bulk hiding the slim quiver and quick-collapse recurve bow on his back. He leaves a tip for the maid in case she stops by while he's out. Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, Clint steps out of his hotel and onto the busy New York sidewalk.

He hunches his shoulders and picks a direction at random, needing less to move somewhere specific than to simply _move_. He's been cooped up inside his hotel room for two days now, channel-surfing and generally feeling restless. He needs to _do_ something. If he can't work, then at least he can walk. 

Clint lets his feet carry him where they want to go, his eyes darting haphazardly from face to face in a sad example of his usual paranoia. He needs to get a grip. He's going to get himself shot at this rate, and it will be no one's fault but his own.

It had probably been stupid to come here. Clint'd picked New York at random, his arm still throbbing from where a bullet had grazed him on his lastest job. Clint had almost gotten himself killed because he hadn't been paying attention. He'd finished the contract and gotten paid, then gone immediately from the job to the airport. He'd hoped being surrounding by people would shake him out of his fugue.

It's not working. Two days in New York and he still feels lost. His arm has healed, but Clint feels detatched from the world. He checks the darknet daily, but there's nothing to pull him out of the feeling that grips him. He doesn't want to kill drug dealers for fifty grand or kingpins for a thousand. He wants something interesting, something _fun_. He wants...

He wants what he can't have.

Clint knows he should go out to a bar tonight. He should shake away this restless feeling with loud music and a steady beat, should drink enough to feel it in the morning and find somebody to take him home. 

It won't be enough, though. Clint knows he'll wake up tomorrow and still feel like this – unsettled. There's only one thing he wants and Clint knows that wishing for something won't make it happen. He'd learned that lesson as a child.

Still, his fingers itch for his phone. He wants to check the darknet again, like there's any chance that something has changed in the past three hours. Mr. Brown has been silent for weeks now, long past the time when he would usually have contacted Clint. Asking again if it's Christmas won't make it December. 

Clint shakes himself and turns, heading down to the subway. He pops a token in the turnstile and choses a train that will take him to Central Park. Maybe he can climb a few trees when no one's looking.

Central Park is busy. Clint usually finds it restful to walk under a bit of green, but he's still itching underneath his skin. Despite himself, he can't help but go over his last job for Mr. Brown in his head, wondering what he did wrong.

Nothing. That's the rub of it. Clint's been over it again and again in his mind, and so far as he can tell the job went perfectly.

Mr. Brown always has the best jobs. His targets have been simple so far, but Clint had felt as if they were working up to something. His first was a mid-level player in the Brazilian mob, his second a slight-higher level goon from Turkey. Since then the jobs have been coming steady, one every four or five weeks. It's been the best eight months of Clint's life.

The jobs are fantastic. Challenging, interesting – the dossiers are so _complete_. Clint hates wiseguys, but he went into merc work with nothing more than a bow and decent aim – he's never been picky about the jobs he takes and reserves the right to call off the hit and refund the money if he sees something he doesn't like. He once refused to shoot a guy who had a kid and seemed like a pretty good father, despite the fact that he was selling secrets to the South American government. He'd lost some cred among the gangs for that stunt, and even more for warning the guy, but Clint's never regretted it. He investigates his targets and follows them around; he tries to make sure that even if he's a contract killer, he's doing the right thing.

Mr. Brown's intel is always right. He pays Clint to kill bad motherfuckers – evil people the world really can do without. He cares about things like collateral damage, and has a stipulation in his contracts about reduction of fee for injury of innocents. 

Beyond even that, he seems to give a damn about Clint himself. His dossiers' always include several alternate exit strategies, with passcode information provided if the door is locked. He gives Clint a broad timeline for the kills, emphasizing information Clint might find useful, such as the target's preferred sleeping position, common routes travelled, and the faces of those hired security officers who just won't give a fuck.

Clint knows the information is a test of some kind – he could have turned around and sold it, informed the target of the holes in their security. He's never done that, and the jobs keep coming.

Or, at least, they did. Now it's been six weeks, almost seven, and nothing.

Clint picks a path and follows it, crossing one of the bridges that litter Central Park. His last job for Mr. Brown was in Paris and Clint took the target down with a single arrow and escaped without any difficulty. There were no innocents hurt, no close calls. Clint is confident he was never seen. So why the silence? 

He tells himself it's stupid to worry. Whoever this Mr. Brown really is, he's obvious intelligent. Sure he must be into some high-level shit to give Clint the information he has, and he's probably not really a good guy himself, not with the wide variety of targets. He must have a whole organization he runs that Clint's never heard of, a wide variety of contacts of whom Clint is only a small, insignificant peice. 

It's stupid to worry.

Clint does anyway.

He kicks along the path until he reaches the oak tree he likes. It's in the middle of the patch of grass students sometimes come to study on, or young mothers bring their kids to picnic. It's empty today, so Clint walks over to the tree. He's just debating whether he wants to climb it when a figure steps into his peripheral vision.

Clint tenses, but doesn't turn around. Fuck, he's an idiot – he's probably been followed since he left his hotel room and he hadn't even noticed.

"Mr. Barton?" the figure asks. "A word, if you please."

The voice is calm, but firm. Clint slips a knife into his sleeve, ready to throw it at a moment's notice, and turns around.

The man watching him is of average height and average weight. His hair is a nondescript brown colour and thinning on top, his suit is neat and well-pressed but hardly tailored. He looks like a accountant taking a late lunch, or a businessman going for a walk after a meeting. There is nothing about him to say that he should know Clint's name.

Except for his eyes.

His eyes are a sharp, piercing blue. They seem to look at Clint and take in everything about him – the bow and quiver under his jacket, the knife in his sleeve, the careful balance of his stance. He smiles, a slight upturning of the lips, and Clint can see the real amusement in his expression. For his part the man stands relaxed, his hands at his sides, his palms open to show he's unarmed. 

He looks completely at ease.

"What do you want?" Clint asks. He doesn't relax.

"I'd like to talk to you about a contract. I realize this isn't how things are usually done, but there are several complications to this particular situation."

Clint narrows his eyes. "I don't like complications."

"You handle them extremely well," the man murmurs. "I honestly didn't think you'd make it out of Milan."

Clint blinks at the man, taking in his appearance again and comparing it to the mental picture he's unconsciously created in his head at some point over the past eight months. " _You're_ Mr. Brown?"

The man smiles and Clint can't help but notice how it lights up his entire face, transforming 'bland' into 'extrordinary'. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Barton."

Clint swallows and relaxes his hold on the knife, slipping it back into its quick-release sheath. "I wasn't sure if I'd be hearing from you again."

"Things have been somewhat stressful of late," the man says with a wry smile. He cocks his head and stares at Clint. "I didn't realize you'd worry."

Clint blushes and looks away, shifting his shoulders. "I wasn't _worried_ ," he grumbles. "I just didn't know if I'd done something wrong."

"Absolutely not," the man says with complete sincerity. "Your work has been exceptional, and it is for that reason I have approached you now." He glances around them. "I'd prefer not to discuss this in the open, however. I have all the documents with me. Could you perhaps choose a hotel we could retire to? Not the establishment you left from this morning, if you would be so kind."

Clint can't help but grin. "What, bedbugs not your style?"

"No," the man says with firm authority. Clint laughs and leads the way out of the park. 

 

*

 

They change cabs twice and end up at a fancy hotel Clint doesn't know the name of. He chooses it randomly, and when asked which room he would prefer he closes his eyes over the list and points. The man at Clint's side doesn't say a word until the room door closes behind them, then he looks Clint in the eye and says, "My name is Phil Coulson."

Clint thinks it suits him. He offers a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Phil."

Phil takes his hand in a firm grip and shakes it. Clint doesn't try too hard to repress the shiver that runs through him at the contact. He thinks Phil's palm lingers a moment on his. 

"The job I would like to hire you for," Phil explains as he pulls a legal-sized envelope out of his suit jacket, "is a combination contract. As you have probably already guessed, I am staging a systematic take-out of a number of organizations. One of the men on my radar is a Mr. Greggory Heins – he is the brother-in-law to Mr. Friez Pugh, the leader of an international syndicate based in Berlin. Eliminating Heins will force Pugh to forge new contacts within the Russian mafia, and I have contacts ready to seize that opportunity. My plan was to deal with several other incursionary elements first and then direct you against Mr. Heins six to eight weeks from now."

Phil pulls a number of surviellence pictures out the envelop and hands them to Clint. Each shows a cruel-looking man with a wicked scar on his chin entering and exiting vehicles. Heins is a big man in a tailored suit with small, beady eyes.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Heins has attracted the interest of other players within the Russian consortium. One of my enemies has put a hit on him and sent an assassin to infiltrate his organization. Heins is well known to take Russian girls under a certain age as substitute for payment. My enemy has arranged for their agent to be smuggled into Berlin as a present for Mr. Heins."

Clint flips to the pictures of Heins with girls who can't be more than fifteen or sixteen. From what he can see, they aren't going with him very willingly.

His fingers itch for his bow. "What's the problem, then? Let them take this douchebag out."

Phil gives him a wry smile. "Normally I would agree, except Mr. Heins is not known to play nice with his 'toys'. His appetites have been degrading and I believe the Russian assassin sent to kill him will be entirely unprepared for the level of danger inherent in this operation. Her... employers... are not known for their full disclosure."

Clint looks up from the pictures. "So you want me to go in there and kill him first."

"Yes," Phil says. "I also want to release the girls he has locked in the basement of his private residence in Berlin." He raises a hand. "I do this not out of charity – the assassin sent against Heins is deadly and efficient. If we can open her eyes to the danger of her employers, she might decide to run as a free agent."

Clint nods and looks back the pictures. There are several of a large house and then a satellite view of the area. Clint counts security teams and whistles. "This isn't going to be easy."

Beside him, Phil nods. "If it were simply an assassination, I would issue a standard contract for you without concern. With the added complication of a rescue, however, I think it would be best if I were to accompany you on this op."

Clint turns to Phil in surprise. "You want to come into the field with me?"

Phil meets his eyes steadily. "Yes. My initial plan was to place you in a sniper position to assassinate Heins and then retrive the girls myself, but," he pulls a phone from his pocket and angles it to show Clint a blueprint of the house, "I am open to suggestions."

They spend the next several hours going over a plan. Clint's doubts as to putting his employer in the field evaporate as Phil's experience becomes evident. While they debate entrance points, Clint steals glances at Phil. Green Beret, he wonders? Rangers?

It takes them until six o'clock that evening to come up with something workable, but they finally have a plan. They order room service and Phil pays. Clint hadn't realized how hungry he was until he's tearing into his steak.

They go over a few last details and then Clint stands up with a groan. At some point they'd migrated from the desk to the bed, pictures and paper spread out around them. "What time do you want me to meet you in the morning?" 

Phil frowns at him. "There's no need to go back to your hotel room," he says. "I can never sleep in hotels. I'll keep watch for you if you like, if you'll do the same for me on the plane."

Clint stops and stares at Phil. "You want me to stay here?"

Phil shrugs. "If you like. As I said, I'm not going to sleep. The bed is a king and I guarantee it's more comfortable that the lump you slept on last night. I've already paid for the room."

Clint thinks of the spare clothes he'd left in his crappy hotel room. It's nothing he can't replace. He shrugs. "Sure."

He takes a shower and doesn't bother lying to himself as he jerks off. Phil Coulson is everything Clint had enjoyed about Mr. Brown – calm, specific, and very competent. He's also handsome under that bland mask, and Clint allows himself to imagine Phil's eyes burning with desire as he fictionally sucks Clint's cock. He switches them in his mind and imagines himself sucking Phil, those firm hands on his head, and that's the image that makes him come.

He takes his time toweling dry and steps back into the room to find that Phil has purchased clothes for him from the hotel store, including pyjamas and a change of underwear for tomorrow.

"Large boxer-briefs?" Clint asks, holding up the package with a smirk. "Really?"

Phil smiles with the corner of his mouth. "I had to guess your size."

There's even a clean t-shirt with the Ralph Lauren logo on it. Clint rolls his eyes but puts it with his things for the morning.

He doesn't think he'll sleep that night. The king-sized bed is ridiculously comfortable, the sheets the softest he's ever slept on, but Clint' s always been a light sleeper. Phil's awake and typing on his phone in the corner. The light might be dim, but Clint knows it will keep him awake.

He blinks to consciousness in the morning, feeling more refreshed than he has for weeks. Apparently, his subconscious handles Phil just fine.

They order breakfast from the kitchen and leave. Phil has circles under his eyes, but he assures Clint that he'll sleep on the plane. They've got a seven hour non-stop flight booked. Phil calls them a cab and they jump several before finally arriving at the airport.

Once there, they split up. Phil hands Clint his ticket and disappears into the crowd. They had talked about this yesterday, but Clint still doesn't like it. He hunches his shoulders and makes his way to his flight.

He doesn't see Phil again until he's looking for his seat on the airplane. First-class, and that's a treat. Employers will tell him who to kill and where, but they don't usually arrange his seat tickets. Even Phil as 'Mr. Brown' had relied on Clint to make his own way to operations.

Clint's arranging his single carry on – a canvas bag containing several pieces of fake ID, one of which Phil had booked his ticket under – to his satisfaction when there's a cough at his elbow.

"I believe this is my seat?" Phil says.

Clint looks over at him and smiles. Phil's eyes twinkle back and he arranges himself comfortably. As promised, Phil's out like a light as soon as the plan takes off, and he sleeps soundly until they land. Clint's wondering if he should shake Phil awake when the man begins to stir. His eyes go from unfocused and glazed to sharp and aware in a fraction of a second, and Clint feels attraction stir again in his gut.

"We're here," he says softly, knowing it's redundant.

Phil nods and they collect their bags. The plane empties without incident and they separate again. Clint flags down a cab just outside the airport and is just turning to look for Phil when the man himself appears at his side.

"Care to share a cab?"

Clint grins a yes and they climb inside. They repeat their trick of jumping cabs a few times until they get out and walk the final block to their destination. They take a room at a motel not far from Heins' mansion, and begin their surviellence.

Everything is as Phil said it would be. Heins has lots of security but they don't randomize their patterns enough; so long as they stick to their plan, they should be able to avoid them. There's a door leading to the basement where the girls are being kept. Heins is otherwise alone at home for the weekend, walking around the upper floors in his bathrobe.

They wait until the middle of the night, and then they move. Clint is on the edge of the property with his bow. Heins is in the master bedroom with the windows thrown open. He's had a girl brought to him for the night, and Clint grits his teeth as he watches Heins rape her. She doesn't scream or try to get away – somehow, that makes it worse.

Clint waits until the agreed upon time. Heins is still going at it. Clint touches his comm when his clock flashes. "Green," he says in a low voice that won't travel.

"Confirmed," Phil replies. The comms are good quality, Phil's voice steady in his ear. "Moving into position."

Clint knows where Phil will be, but even watching he can hardly see the black-on-black shadow. Clint watches the security guard finish his patrol. He keeps his bow taunt, an arrow on the string. If the guard does anything unexpected, Clint will drop him.

He doesn't. Phil makes it to the door and keys in the entry code, then slips inside. Clint gives him the ten-count they'd decided on, then shifts his attention back to Heins. He's got the girl on the bed and is pounding her from on top. Clint lines up the shot and doesn't hesitate. The arrow goes through Heins throat, blood splattering the bedspread.

Clint tenses, waiting to see what will happen next. They'd debated this part of the plan yesterday, Phil calmly and rationally pointing out that Heins always has girls with him. If she screams, the guards are likely to ignore her – they are well trained by now. If she runs out of the room and alerts security, they will see the arrow and begin to search the grounds. Either way, Phil should have more than enough time to locate the girls and retrieve them from the basement.

If the girl they have particular interest in is the one getting raped that night, Phil says she will be able to get herself out. No matter what information she has been given, she is skilled enough for that. If that is the case, Phil will retrieve the other girls as planned.

Clint watches the window. He sees the girl on the bed sit up, watches her stare at the dead man lying crumpled on the bed. She turns and looks out the window. Clint can see she isn't the girl they're after – her hair is black, her features pinched. She has blood on her chest and belly and she doesn't scream.

Instead, Clint can see her eyes darting about the lawn, looking for the assassin. He knows she won't see him here. After a moment she gives up, but lifts a hand to the window. Clint grins. She's giving him a thumbs up.

He wants to say something, but can't. Security is turning around the corner again, unaware their employeer is dead. The girl sees the guard and withdrawals from the window. She kicks Heins' body out of sight behind the bed and then disappears from Clint's view.

Clint waits until the guard passes and then makes his way silently around the house. He avoids the patrols and waits, a new arrow on his string. Exactly on time, the back door opens. Clint watches as Phil sticks his head out the door and looks around. He meets Clint's eyes, and nods.

The girls follow him out of the door and onto the grass. Clint keeps an eye on the perimeter. This is the tricky part of their operation. They couldn't reasonably estimate what the girls would do when exposed to freedom, and sure enough one of them breaks into a sob and runs.

Clint lets her go, tracking the grounds. Sure enough a guard spots her. Before he can shout, Clint nails him in the throat with an arrow. 

Another girl screams and runs. A second guard appears, and Clint kills that one, too. He can see Phil give the remaining girls instructions, and then he melts into the shadows. There's a _click_ over their comm, and then Phil's voice says, "Dialing the police now."

Five minutes later it's all over. Clint and Phil watch the police arrive from concealed cover. Clint's killed five guards in the past five minutes, giving the girls time to get away. He'd watched as the girl from Heins' room had seen the commotion and climbed down from the window, jumping to her friends on the grass. Together, the girls had fled the scene, the red haired one in the centre giving instructions. Clint doesn't know what happened to the two who ran, but he hopes they made it safe to town.

The police show up and everything is confusion. The guards rush into Heins' bedroom and seem surprised to find him dead. Phil has timed their operation so no other mob member with seniority is present – the majority of the guards surrender and are taken into custody. 

Phil has evidence he delivers to the authorities indicating that one of the girl's dead brothers had orchestrated the operation as revenge before being taken out by a rival gang. Clint's signature style is well known, but Phil's part in the whole thing will remain a secret.

That is, except from those who matter.

"Did you make contact?" Clint asks as they share breakfast at a cafe later that morning. They're playing tourist in Berlin, Clint with a backpack and Phil in a button up shirt and slacks. 

"Yes," Phil answers calmly. "I gave her the name Brown and left her my darknet address. I can only hope that she decides to leave the Red Room and join us."

"Us?" Clint asks with a smile. He enjoys Phil's slip of the tongue too much.

"Yes," Phil says calmly, looking at Clint over the rim of his coffee. Maybe it wasn't a slip "I think we work well together." 

Clint blinks and stares back. "Are you serious?" he asks, before he can think better than to question it. "You want me to come work for you? Full time?"

"I do," Phil says. He takes a sip of his coffee and puts it down. "I like your skills, Clint, and I admire your dedication. My work is far from over – I will need a man I can trust at my back. Besides," he says and slowly, tantilizingly, lets his eyes roam over Clint's body, "I think we can do great things together."

Clint feels arousal bloom. He stares hungrily at Phil. "We'll have to re-negotiate my contract."

"That I can do," Phil replies. He takes out his wallet and leaves the cost of breakfast on the table, plus a healthy tip. He stands. "Are you coming?"

Clint slurps back his coffee and crams the last of his breakfast into his mouth. "Yes, sir," he says, following Phil to his feet. "Absolutely."


	2. Chapter 2

Phil wastes no time hustling Clint out of the cafe and back to their motel room. He scans the security checks he'd placed before they left – the strand of hair is still stuck in the doorway, the small paint chip hasn't fallen from the knob. Their few possessions inside the room are just where he left them, several changes of tourist clothes that would do nothing to link them to the multiple murders committed only a few blocks away were the police to come looking.

They won't, Phil knows, but paranoia is an art form. He has to make sure.

Once he gets Clint inside the door, Phil turns and pushes him back against it. He flips the sturdy bolt-lock closed then reaches both hands up to grip Clint by the sides of the head and pushes their lips together.

Clint groans and melts into the kiss, lips opening to let Phil inside. He invades Clint's mouth, taking no prisoners, scraping his tongue along Clint's teeth and plundering him. Clint's only response is to spread his legs wider and give Phil greater access to anything he wants.

Phil wants. Phil wants very much.

He breaks off the kiss with a bite to Clint's lower lip and steps back, forcing his hands away from Clint's face and down to his sides. Phil knows his heart is pounding with desire, but he keep his voice steady as he faces Clint. "Strip."

Clint shudders all over, a delicious shake that makes Phil want to order him on his knees and push his cock into Clint's wet, hot mouth. He restrains himself only with long practice; hours spent watching Clint line up his kill. Phil has wanted this man since he first saw him on the range with a bow in his hand. He's beautiful and finally – after months of waiting – Phil will have him.

He doesn't want to rush things.

Clint strips with an economy of motion that betrays how much he wants this. Phil lets his eyes rake over Clint's body, the hard, defined muscle practically begging for Phil's teeth. He hardly recognizes his voice when he speaks. "Touch yourself."

Clint shudders again, but does as he's told. He reaches a hand up and ghosts it over his dick, which is already hard and straining towards his stomach. Clint's breath hitches when his hand makes contact. "I'll come," he warns, his voice high and needy.

"No, you won't," Phil tells him. 

Clint closes his eyes and groans, his dick twitching. Phil watches him bite the inside of his cheek to gain control of himself, and then slowly he begins to stroke his dick. Phil watches the way Clint's hand twist and pull, memorizes what he seems to like. He notes the flush that's rising up Clint's chest, making his nipples stand out and darken. "Stop," he says, when it seems like Clint's close. His breath hitches, but he obeys.

"Good boy," Phil murmurs, stepping in. Clint groans and shakes, his hands dropping to his sides, fingers digging into his palms. He looks like he could come without Phil laying a finger on him.

"You're marvelous, Clint," Phil says, playing his hunch. "No one tells you that, do they? Not enough. You are beautiful and good, so good at doing the things that I want. I give you instructions and you turn them into plans, I give you options and you bring me results. You are the perfect man to have at my side, exactly what I have been searching for."

Clint's breath is coming hard and fast. Phil can see his pulse fluttering in his throat, the way his flush is spreading. 

"You're gorgeous," he continues, circling him. Phil doesn't try to disguise the want in his voice, the appreciation. "I am going to do so many things to you, Clint. I am going to make you scream, going to make you come. You will love every minute of it, you are going to beg for more when I claim you. Are you _mine_ now, Clint Barton. I own you, and I am going to be very, very good to you."

Clint arcs his back. He shudders. His hands clench into fists at his side, the nails digging into his palms.

"I want to see you come, Clint. I want to see you come like this, naked and beautiful, shaking with want," Phil breathes. "Come for me now, Clint. Come for me now, just like this." His voice hardens. "Come for me, Clint. Now!" 

Clint shouts and comes, his cock jumping, splattering himself and his belly, dripping down to the floor. He slumps and almost falls over. Phil catches him

"There you are, my beautiful boy. My good, beautiful boy. Very good, Clint. Very good."

Clint shakes and shudders. Phil gently pushes him the two steps back to the bed, throws the covers off and tucks Clint in, laying down beside him. Phil puts a hand on his belly, smearing Clint's come over his skin. Clint turns and buries his nose into Phil's hair, breathing in the scent of him. Phil pulls him closer.

"Yes, that's it. You're okay now, Clint. You're mine. I always take care of things that are mine."

Clint seems beyond words right now. He falls apart in Phil's arms, and Phil just strokes him, murmuring his name and all the filthy, wonderful things he's going to do to him. He continues to play with Clint's come until it dries, hardening into flakes on his skin. He pushes his sticky fingers into Clint's mouth and watches as his gasps and sucks, tongue flicking out to suck Phil's hand clean.

Phil shudders and pulls Clint against him, forcing their mouths together and pressing his tongue past Clint's lips. Clint groans and sags against him, so wonderfully willing. Phil bites at his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, and tastes blood.

They exchange kisses, Phil aggressive and Clint pliant. Phil trails a hand down Clint's body, learning every inch of him, teasing at his nipples and learning what makes him groan. Finally, he pushes his hand between Clint's thighs and runs a finger over his hole.

Clint gasps, his eyes wide and wild. Phil grins into his mouth. "You ever had a man fuck you before, my beautiful boy?"

"Yeah," Clint says in a shaky voice, "years ago."

Phil reaches over to the nightstand drawer and the bottle of lube he stashed there hours ago. "Did you like it?"

Clint shivers but shakes his head. "No. I mean, I didn't. He was – it wasn't good. I've been with a few guys since then, but I've always been the one to the do the fucking."

"Not this time," Phil promises him, warming the lube between his hands. "I'm going to fill you up, Clint, fill you up so good. You're going to beg for more from me, I promise. One day, if you're very good, I might let you ride me, but not today."

"Okay," Clint says, still vibrating. "Okay, fuck. Yes, Phil – _anything_."

"Anything," Phil echoes, "because your mine." Clint nods, but it's not enough. "Say it, Clint," Phil tells him. "Promise me. Tell me that your mine."

"Yours," Clint says, his words turning into a gasp as Phil brushes a lube-drenched finger over his hole. "Fuck, yes – _yours_ , Phil. All yours!"

"Yes," Phil agrees, pushing into him. He knows his voice is low, rough. His cock is so hard it's almost painful. " _Mine_."

Phil takes his time opening Clint up, wanting it to be good for him, wanting him to be gasping. By the end he's calling Phil's name and pleading for his cock, just as Phil promised he would be. Phil undoes his pants and releases the pressure on his dick, pulling himself out just enough to slip on the condom he'd palmed with the lube. He rolls Clint all the way onto his back and positions himself over him. In one smooth, careful motion, he pushes himself inside.

Clint arcs his back and yells. His legs come up to give Phil room, and he holds his knees for leverage as Phil slowly slides into him. He's so hot and tight, so _good_ , that Phil can't help but groan in satisfaction.

"Oh, Clint, _yes_. You feel so good around me, my beautiful boy. So fantastic. I'm going to fuck you now, Clint. I'm going to fuck you so hard you scream."

Clint does scream, brokenly, Phil's name a sob on his lips as his cock hardens all the way again. He can hardly come again so soon, but his body tries when Phil finds his prostate, pounding it mercilessly. He clenches his ass around Phil's cock and Phil comes.

He holds Clint afterwards, easing him through the aftershocks, pulling himself carefully out of him and them tucking him in close. Clint goes with aching sweetness, folding himself around Phil and burying his face against his chest.

Phil's still almost fully clothed, his pants hanging open but his shirt buttoned up. He doesn't bother moving Clint to strip, just adjusts him until they are both comfortable. Phil holds him until Clint falls asleep.

Phil knows he won't sleep even here, even now. He drifts, though, as much as his body and brain will let him, and he wakes Clint with plenty of time to spare.

They shower together and Clint blows him, water dripping down from his lashes as he sucks Phil's cock. Phil comes down his throat, not bothering with a condom. He already has plans to get Clint tested, has gotten checked himself even though he knows he's clean. 

They leave Berlin later that day. Phil sleeps again on the plane. He wishes his brain could learn to sleep in a hotel as it does on a plane, but he suspects his midnight cross-continental flights with the military to be the cause. In another life, Phil had served his country of birth with distinction. The memories don't bother him – it's what set him on this course.

He doesn't tell Clint where they're going. Clint raises an eyebrow once, and Phil smiles, taking him by the wrist and leading him on. They jump more than a few cabs until they reach Phil's safe house, one of the many he has scattered around the globe.

Phil adds Clint's information to the concealed biometric scanner and leads him inside. The house is far from grand, but it is elegant, a two-story building on the outskirts of New York. He doesn't offer Clint a tour, just walks inside and deposits his single bag on the floor.

"Welcome home, Clint," he says, turning to face his newest acquisition, his partner, the man he has been carefully wooing with controlled patience for months now. 

Clint blinks and takes in the space, the living room with its comfortable couch, the kitchen nestled in the back he's probably itching to explore, and the formal dining room with its mountain of paper files. In front of him is the staircase leading to the upper floor, to the master bedroom and bath.

"Home?" he asks, and then swallows. "Where's the rest of your crew?"

Phil shakes his head. "I work alone, Clint, and now with you. I have contacts in every major city, informants and individuals I have paid off. But I have never had a partner before you, never had anyone to share my mission with."

He watches Clint take that in, watches him changing assumptions in his mind. After a moment, Clint blinks, and his eyes, when they focus on Phil, are clear. He smiles. "Now you have me."

"Yes," Phil agrees, stepping foward to pull Clint against him. "Now I have you."

_And I am never_ , he thinks as he drags Clint into a kiss, _ever letting you go_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, seriously - coming on command is _really hard_. I just figure that Clint is enough turned on from stroking himself that, coupled with Phil's amazing sexy voice, it might be slightly possible.
> 
> Might.
> 
> Slightly.
> 
> *Lol*


End file.
